Freefall
by WakeUpRespawn
Summary: Johnlock. Angst/PTSD/Suicidal thoughts. Ongoing series. "Christ. Tell me you're going to be okay until I get there, John. Tell me." Okay? Of course he'll be okay, why wouldn't he be? "I'll be okay," he said waveringly. "Tell me you're not going to do anything to yourself. Can you do that?" "Do anything?" he echoed, confused. Another wonder... Sherlock's voice sounded scared.
1. Chapter 1

**Freefall**

Parings: Johnlock

Warnings: Slash/Angst/PTSD/suicidal thoughts

This is an ongoing series.

* * *

He started packing the day after Sherlock solved a double murder and rape of two twin girls.

It didn't start out as actual packing. Just cleaning, going through things, marveling at all the shit they'd collected and kept lying around, collecting dust. And there was a lot of dust. Between the clutter and Sherlock's many discarded experiments even the dust was collecting dust.

Work has been all right. The blog did extremely well, bringing in ad revenue and putting food on the table in between cases. There were a few cases that really absorbed him, gave him something concrete to think about.

But mostly John thought about nothing at all. Or at least that was what he told himself.

The same day he spent investigating a double homicide - jealous husband, cheating wife, boyfriend caught with his pants down, literally - he realized he wanted out.

It was hard to work with Sherlock now. Hard to work with everyone. And when he woke up in the middle of the night, just about every night, with broken dreams of blood soaked sand, phantom leg pain or raped little girls, he pretty much found it hard to work, period.

Mrs. Hudson treated him like he was made out of spun glass. Way too understanding. Sherlock was ever the Vulcan, without any trace of understanding that John could see. He hated going to work on a crime scene. Not the work itself, but the feeling.

After returning from a case in Cardiff, John found an opportunity and courage to tell Sherlock he needed a holiday. Two weeks. His face burned with shame.

"Will it help?" Sherlock asked him bluntly.

John shrugged. "I think so."

"It might be better if -"

"Look," John interrupted, his heart suddenly galloping briskly in his chest, "if you're going say something about getting back on the horse or to push these feelings and doubts aside, you might as well save it. Been there, done that. It isn't helping."

Sherlock regarded him with what John reluctantly recognized as understanding. "I was going to suggest a month," he replied mildly.

And damn it, he was by God NOT going cry in front of Sherlock Holmes, even if he felt like it right now. "That'd be good," he said in a strangled voice.

By the time he got to the cab, he didn't feel like crying anymore. Just getting away. What a goddamn relief.

His first stop was Dublin, and his folks were mystified but wildly happy to see him, of course. His work with Sherlock meant he didn't get home as much as they wanted - or he wanted, for that matter - and so he did the family thing. Helped his mum cook, helped his father on the car. Met up with some friends and got drunk more than a few times. It didn't help, but it felt like something that was normal and expected of him, so he did.

Sherlock finally texted him the second week he was home.

_How is the family? SH_

How'd the man know where he was? Always the spooky Sherlock, more of a psychic than a detective. No, John knew he was just horribly transparent sometimes.

He didn't respond to the text.

He stopped doing much, that third week. He'd done everything he was supposed to do, and now his parents were getting a little curious about why he wasn't going back to work yet. He slept a lot, stopped drinking after one hellacious hangover that had him re-enacting university by spending the entire next day sick as a dog.

But mostly he just existed, breathing and not doing much else. He wasn't hungry. Wasn't interested in much. He was there, and that was all that he could manage.

"What's wrong, John?" his dad asked one night, his face creased with worry. "What's going on, son?"

"Nothing," John said remotely, and changed channels on the telly. Digital cable, not satellite, what a relief.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Don't worry."

But his dad did worry, and his mum, and what had been comfortable, safe, was suddenly stifling. He packed the next morning without knowing he was going to leave, and damn it, there were tears in his mum's eyes when he hugged her goodbye, but what the hell was he going say? The truth? What WAS the truth? He'd lost his nerve? Had himself worn down by one too many, horrible bloody cases, after spending all those years being a doctor? They wouldn't believe him. They knew about his PTSD and thought he had recovered. They would worry instantly if they sensed otherwise, and he couldn't live with scaring his folks, any more than he already had, and so he split.

He caught the first flight out, not even looking at the destination.

It happened to be Canada.

* * *

The day he was supposed to return to home, he called Sherlock.

"Is everything okay, John? Where are you?"

"I'm okay. I'm in Dublin. With family as you know," he lied. "Sorry about today. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Take whatever time you need, John." Sherlock sounded hesitant, "Look, why don't you let me take you to dinner when you're back? Catch you up on things?"

Because I'm 5,000 kilometers away from you, John almost said, and found a hard, painful grin on his face. "Maybe tomorrow," he said guilelessly. "But thanks."

A pause. Then. "Of course."

He took the ferry over to Nova Scotia and didn't call the next day. Damn, there wasn't a soul on the planet who knew where he was now. It was a weird, good feeling. A _free_ feeling.

He rubbed his temples, annoyed at the headache from the hunger he felt and he found himself in need of a bit of comfort food but there seemed to be nothing but the average terrible American brands of chocolate and snacks in the motel shop. He made a small purchase of a sports drink, a bottle of ibuprofen and a few bags of sweets.

The next afternoon he stared at the phone in his motel room and felt the tears finally come back. Only this time there wasn't any stopping them. Grief flattened him, smashed into him like a tornado, and he lay on the creaky bed and curled up and cried, cried so hard he finally had to stagger to the bathroom and throw up. And then cried some more, realizing he would sell his damn SOUL to talk to someone, to not be so goddamn alone.

The horrible feeling from before, those 18 months before, alone in a single bedroom barely surviving his nightmares.

He hit the speed-dial on his cell phone and tried to stop crying long enough to talk.

"Where the hell are you?"

Sherlock didn't sound pissed. He sounded _worried_, and boy, that was all the damn tears needed to get started again. "Sorry," John said in a watery, foggy croak.

A delicate pause. "John, are you okay?"

Didn't even sound like Sherlock, either. Never heard him sound worried like this. Will marvels never cease. "No," John croaked. "I don't think I am."

Sounded like Sherlock was walking. "Where are you? I'll come get you, okay, just stay put."

His nose was running. "Canada. I'm in Canada."

A pause, then Sherlock's thunderstruck voice: "CANADA?"

"I'm sorry," John whispered.

"I'm coming to get you, all right? Where in Canada, John?"

You don't have to do that, he wanted to say. I'll be back soon. But horrifyingly he didn't say anything like that, instead all he could come up with was a watery "Okay. N-Nova Scotia."

"Christ. Tell me you're going to be okay until I get there, John. Tell me."

Okay? Of course he'll be okay, why wouldn't he be? "I'll be okay," he said waveringly.

"Tell me you're not going to do anything to yourself. Can you do that?"

"Do anything?" he echoed, confused.

"Have you already?"

What? "I don't understand..."

"Promise me you'll go to a hospital if you - " And another wonder: Sherlock's voice broke. Holy saguaros, Batman, the London Vulcan sounds positively - scared.

"I'm not going to kill myself!" John said, suddenly utterly terrified. But what if he was? Was he? Was this why he was here? Did Sherlock detect something in his voice even he didn't realize? Christ, the bottle of ibuprofen.. was that why...

"Swear it," Sherlock snapped.

"A-all r-right." John stammered.

"I'll be there tomorrow. Just - don't do anything, John. Don't."

I won't, I promise. John wanted to say. But the words wouldn't come out, and he had no idea why. The call ended and John bolted from his position, fishing out the bottle of ibuprofen from the plastic bag. He dumped the entire contents into the toilet and flushed, staring into the dizzying vortex as they disappeared. He started to giggle but stopped himself, afraid it would lead to a hysterical fit. It was ridiculous, completely ridiculous. He never would have taken those pills, what a ridiculous conclusion Sherlock had come to. John stilled, exhaustion settling into his shoulders. Then why flush them?

Because Sherlock was always right.

* * *

He fell asleep around 3 a.m. He awoke to his phone ringing, and he had lost all sense of time. He was strangling in the sheets when he finally fumbled to his phone on the side table.

"I had to rent an automobile. You alright?" Sherlock inquired.

"Tired," John mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Tough. I haven't slept in 52 hours. Got your call right after I finished a case with Lestrade and been on the move ever since. You have to talk to me, or I'm going to drive off the road."

So he talked, without any idea of what he was really saying. Telling Sherlock about Dublin and his family, and how he bought the first ticket to anywhere, which landed him in Canada. Telling him of his ferry and bus rides. Directing Sherlock to his current location in between stories.

Sherlock sounded pretty tired himself, but he kept John on the phone until he saw the motel, and then there was a knock at the door and John reeled over to open it.

"Hey," he said to Sherlock's astonished face. And passed out cold.

* * *

It wasn't much of a faint, but it was embarrassing anyway. Except he didn't really feel so much embarrassed as apologetic, because Sherlock had a funny, grim look on his face that John had never seen before.

"I'm okay," he said, trying and completely failing to get up on his own. It took Sherlock to haul him to his feet again, and even then the ground was doing some kind of gross pitch and yaw thing straight out of Perfect Storm, and it took all his energy not to puke, never mind walk unaided.

"No, John, you're not okay," Sherlock retorted tersely.

That made him feel like crying again. Shit.

"Why'd you have to run? You should have told me."

"Told you what?"

"That - That you were -" Yet another surprise. Sherlock, stammering.

"I don't know." It wasn't a lie. Except for the part that was.

Sherlock sat down in the single chair and reached up to rub his eyes, and John took in how tired he looked. Tired, looking older than his years.

"Feel like you could eat something? You look like you dropped at least half a stone, and unless I miss my guess, that little swoon was because you haven't had anything to eat. Sound about right?"

Mutely, John nodded.

"I don't suppose there are many delivery establishments here." Sherlock's voice was its dry best, and John forced a smile. "Okay, I'm going out for food. You'll be here when I get back, right?"

John nodded again.

Sherlock regarded him steadily. "Your mum called me," he said. "Got my number off the website."

"Oh."

"She sounded very scared. That's when I started to worry."

He knew he had lied about still being in Dublin. Of course he knew. But wow, how embarrassing. He felt his face heating up. "I just needed some space," John mumbled, looking down.

"I understand that. I do," Sherlock added at John's startled look. "Although I don't think I've needed _this_ much space."

"I didn't plan it," John said hoarsely. "Just kinda - ended up here."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Then stay here, and I'll be back in 15."

"Okay."

He fell asleep, somehow, and the next thing he felt was a touch on his shoulder. With a garbled shout of terror John threw himself off the bed, only to fall over on the other bed, stunned.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock sounded sorry, too, standing there awkwardly with a sack in one hand and the key in the other, and a stricken expression on his face. "I didn't mean to startle you."

John tried to grab a breath. "S'okay," he squeaked, avoiding Sherlock's all-too-intense gaze.

"I got Chinese. It was that or pizza."

John nodded and found it oddly comforting, the idea of Chinese food. It seemed to be "their" meal together. He sat in the middle of the bed nearest the table, hands shaking too bad to manage chopsticks, trying to eat a little kung pao chicken and feeling Sherlock watching, watching. Eating and watching.

When the food was not exactly gone but sufficiently picked-at, Sherlock sighed. And here it comes, John thought, his stomach clenching. This wasn't _logical_, John, the London Vulcan would say. Only Sherlock didn't really seem very Vulcan-ish these days, did he?

"You scared the shit out of me, John," Sherlock said in a soft, weird voice.

John gave him a startled look. "I know," he answered hollowly. "I didn't think about that. I wasn't - thinking much for a while there."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, and John didn't miss the way it was suddenly Sherlock who didn't quite meet his eyes. "Feel any better?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Feel like coming back to Baker Street?"

John swallowed. "I don't know."

A tiny smile played about the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Just feel like - being in Canada, is that it?"

"Something like that."

"I called your mum. Told her you were alright."

John nodded mutely, eyes downcast.

"She told me I should drag you back by your hair." Now the smile was a grin. "She asked me if I could call the Mounties. I didn't think that would be necessary."

"No, no Mounties."

Sherlock nodded slowly, picking at leftover rice. "So what now? Stay here? Work our way back?"

John's eyes narrowed. "'We'? Don't you have to go back?"

"Yes, I have to go back."

"But -"

"I didn't say I have to go back right now."

John snorted, shaking his head. "Going to babysit me for a few days?" he asked harshly.

"Guess so. If that's what it takes."

"I'm a grownup, you know. I can -"

"-Take care of yourself, yes. I know." Sherlock eyed him steadily. "But you've had a hell of a time, John. I'm not your babysitter."

"No, Sherlock, you're my colleague," John shot back.

"I thought we established we are friends too," came Sherlock's soft reply.

John shrugged. "Okay, you're a friend. But I don't know what I want to do, okay? I don't -" He had to swallow; his throat was as dry as toast. "I don't know if I want to go back."

"That's fair. I can't say that I blame you."

"Oh really."

"Yes, really. Look, what is it with you and me about this? I've cut you every bit of slack at my disposal, not to mention -"

"I know," John interrupted, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "I know. I'm sorry," he added stiffly.

Sherlock didn't say anything else for a moment. Finally he said, "I've got to go get a room. Don't think they'll fill up, but you never know."

It felt like his heart was bleeding. What else could hurt his chest this bad? "No," John said as casually as he could. "Have an extra bed right here, and it's paid for. Why don't you stay here?"

When he met Sherlock's eyes he looked uncannily calm. "Yes. Okay. If that's what you want."

And it WAS what he wanted, there was the real hell of it. Because it was Sherlock he'd called, when the shit hit the fan, wasn't it? Out of all the people he knew, the people who loved him, or cared about him, it had been Sherlock whose number his finger had dialed. So yeah, that was what he wanted.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "It's what I want."

* * *

He's going to die. There's no question of if, but only when. Will they pull the trigger now, or wait a couple more minutes? Help's on its way, but it's going to be too late, way too late, he's never going to know how late because he's going to be dead. Dead and gone, just another statistic from the war.

Didn't they see? See the Red Cross emblem on his heavy medical kit? On the patch on his arm? He was off boarders. It was against the rules. He wasn't supposed to die like this. Not at point blank. John felt a strangled laugh catch in his throat. No rules in war.

The insurgent lifts his gun at John's chest. "Wait!" John screams, doesn't even bother with crying because it's too late, the gun's gone off and the pain is in his chest, spiraling down his shoulder and back. He falls but instead of gun metal or blood he smells chlorine.. Oh God he could smell the chlorine of the pool... Could feel the winter coat, the Semtex... Moriarty's laugh...

"JOHN!"

He came to gasping, mindlessly struggling against whatever it was that was touching him, holding him.

"John, it's okay! It's okay, it's me, Sherlock, listen to me. It's okay. Just a dream, all right? Just a dream."

Panting, heart banging against his ribs with panic, John fought for a second, and then Sherlock's wonderfully calm, sane voice penetrated.

"It's okay, John, it's all right. It's just a dream. They're not here. Just me."

John took in a gigantic whoop of air, and tried to sit up. "Wha -" he said dizzily. Sherlock? But Sherlock was in London, and John was - where, exactly? Dublin, right? Wait, no, this wasn't Dublin, this was Canada, Mounties, hair-pulling. Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he gasped, and burst into tears.

Sherlock didn't budge. Holding him, hard when he tried to break away because this was too fucking embarrassing, he hated to cry but he hated crying in front of anyone more, and yet he just didn't have the control, didn't _want_ the fucking control. What he wanted -

- was Sherlock, there, and here he was, and it was okay, maybe not completely, but a shitload better than it had been. So he pressed his face against Sherlock's chest and stopped thinking about it, and let go.

Sherlock went perfectly still, which John was forever grateful. He knew even the slightest pull away from Sherlock would cause the pain of rejection to be too much, and if Sherlock moved toward him that also would prove too overwhelming. Stillness and calm was perfect and Sherlock was a master of it.

When he could think again, he became aware of two things. First, Sherlock's shirt was soaked. And second, as screwy as it sounded, as unexpected as it was, John felt better, _safer_, than he had in weeks, right here.

He put his hand on Sherlock's wet shirt and grimaced. "I'm sor-"

"It's okay. Relax. It's okay."

So here was a picture, a part of his mind told him. The part that sat back and offered its own lively commentary on everything. All cuddled up with the consulting detective, isn't that sweet. Why don't you just let him fuck you and get it over -

"Shut up," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, sliding his arms shamelessly around Sherlock's waist and closing his eyes to the feel of Sherlock's hand stroking his hair. "S'okay."

And it sort of was okay, and he thought about how strangely great that was before he slipped back into the thankfully now-dreamless realm of sleep.

* * *

Hell of it was, Sherlock didn't seem to be anything but completely cool with waking up to John wrapped around him. And since John _wasn't_ completely cool about it - didn't know what to think of it, if truth were told - that same coolness was extremely freaky in and of itself.

He'd had no idea how long Sherlock had been awake. There was just the solid, unbelievably reassuring feel of a strong body next to his own, and then he was blinking at his flatmate, who he had evidently stuck to like a barnacle all night.

"Hi," Sherlock said, looking sleepy and so not not-cool, John was immediately, extremely awake.

"Hey," John croaked, unbarnacle-ing himself. Even with the curtains drawn the brightness of the sunlight was crucifying. "Shit," he mumbled, reaching up to rub his eyes.

"Don't. You'll make it worse."

"Uh," John responded idiotically.

"Shower. Coffee. Breakfast. In that order?"

"Uh."

"Still not a morning person, are you?"

"Um."

"Shower, John. You know how I prefer conversing with people who are actually awake."

He took a long, blissfully hot shower and tried not to look at himself too much in the mirror while he dried off.

He put on his jeans and finally paid attention to how loose they were. Looks like Sherlock was right. He'd dropped half a stone. He'd see to that, if he could just find his lost appetite.

When he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair, Sherlock had found coffee someplace and was talking quietly on the phone. Seeing John, he put his hand over the receiver and lifted his chin. "Lestrade," he mouthed. John nodded, most of his brief content melting away.

In the tiny cafe adjoining the motel, John poked at eggs and potatoes and watched Sherlock polish off a seriously huge omelet. "Most important meal of the day, huh?" John remarked weakly. This was odd, him not eating and Sherlock wolfing down a meal.

"Would you like some?"

"No, thanks." He went back to poking.

A few minutes later Sherlock sipped his coffee and leaned back. "Eat, John," he said gently, another one of those tiny smiles on his face. "Important meal. You said it, not me, remember?"

John forced a smile and made himself eat a bite. At the corner of his eye he caught the movement of a little girl and her mother cross the street, a deep red backpack on the child's shoulders, much too big for her small frame. The little, nasty voice in his head sat up and snarled, his brain forcing images with rapid movement of blood long blonde hair and of little girl's screaming…

With a revolted sound John shoved himself back from the table, scanning the room with absolute focus, looking for the bathroom. About half a minute later he left what he'd managed of eat of breakfast in the toilet, and kept right on trying to throw up the lining of his stomach for a while after. When it seemed to be over, he clawed his way to a standing position, hit the handle on the toilet and reeled over to the sink. His mouth tasted utterly gross. He rinsed, and drank a little water, but when it gurgled dangerously in his belly he left it alone, too.

Just - don't think about it. That's the ticket. Everything will be okay if you just. Don't. Think about it.

Back at the table, the dishes were thankfully gone, and Sherlock had already paid the ticket. "Come on," he said mildly, touching John's elbow. "Let's pack up and head out."

John blinked. "What? Where?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you wanted some Canadian air and still not comfortable heading back home yet. Seems natural we might explore a bit here, don't you?" His body settled and his trained eyes rested on John, waiting.

John blinked again and swallowed hard. Avoiding the brutal stare he knew he was being given. Sherlock saw much, sometimes too much. Sometimes it felt like a game, was John just another broken puzzle Sherlock felt compelled to piece together again?

They packed quickly as there wasn't much to pack. Sherlock took off his jacket and flung it in the back before settling into the driver's seat. As if he already expected to be driving a great deal and wanted to be comfortable. John felt distant, barely hearing a quip Sherlock made about the differences between driving on different sides on the road. He thought absently that the driving might be a little more difficult in that sense, but he knew Sherlock would find it a breeze.

They settled on silence, but hadn't settled on a destination. Sherlock just drove and John stared out the side.

* * *

Sherlock was his flatmate, colleague and brain trust. He had come five-fucking-thousand kilometers just to see if his sorry ass was still alive.

John blinked, coming back into the world with a sudden realization. "Christ, this has been a real pain in the ass for you, hasn't it?" he asked, shutting his eyes.

"Yes, John," came Sherlock's deadpan reply. "Major pain in the ass."

"Why didn't you just call the Mounties or just have my family deal with it or… " He broke off.

Sherlock changed lanes, then back again. "Would you rather I'd done that?"

John glanced at him, obscurely uncomfortable. "I didn't say that."

John caught Sherlock's grin, and had to smile, too.

* * *

When he thought about it, he couldn't remember ever having quite as good a time as he had had, the past few days. Well, sure he'd had fun before in his life. But this was different, in ways that sort of made sense and sort of didn't. A different flavor of fun, maybe.

For one thing, Sherlock's smarts were always completely fascinating to him. Sherlock had weird little factoids about everything. From the history of Niagara Falls to a bewildering treatise on the Canadian dollar that had made John's head hurt, the man just had all of info stored in his head. And John knew how others would find it freaky, even weird, but John was enthralled.

"You need to go on Jeopardy," John remembered saying, a day ago.

Sherlock gave him a baleful look. "No, thanks," he said thinly.

"Why not? Make a ton of money, dazzle people with your intellect -"

"Don't go there, John."

"You know you'd love it. You love to be clever. Face it, Sherlock, you're a fucking brain trust. Besides, it's not embarrassing to do Jeopardy. A friend of mine did it, couple years ago in America. Didn't win, but he did pretty well. You'd knock 'em out."

Sherlock just smiled. "You know I don't find importance in most trivia. Can you really see me on Jeopardy? " he stated, and John had to laugh, because no, he really couldn't, but shit, the guy was brilliant! Could you blame him?

But there were other things he discovered, too. Things like the fact that Sherlock wasn't a Vulcan, after all.

"I'm sorry about the other night," John said now, in a diner in a minuscule Quebec town.

Sherlock glanced up from his plate. "Sorry about what?"

John put down his sandwich and considered the possibility that what the cafe called "ham," was known as "Spam" in England. "In Nova Scotia," he said, wrinkling his nose at the sandwich. "I have - bad dreams."

"Yes, I know. Don't apologize." Sherlock was eyeing his own lunch with a similar look of opprobrium. "I'm just glad I could help."

And that was the hell of it, because Sherlock _did_ help. And with a level of concern and honest caring that made John feel deeply and obscurely ashamed.

There hadn't been any more nightmares since Nova Scotia, that he could remember.

Every night there was a double hotel room. But every night so far, they'd only used one bed. And that was both alarming and something else, and between the two John wasn't at all sure which was more compelling.

Where to start? Why was this happening? From choosing Sherlock to call instead of Harry or his mum, to being wildly glad that Sherlock was there, to winding up in bed with him? Not that "bed" had any real connotations. It was just comfort. But John hadn't been comforted by much of anyone for a while now, and certainly not Sherlock.

Certainly not a MAN, the nasty little voice inside him piped up helpfully.

Which still didn't explain why it just felt so damn good.

They didn't talk about it. At least there was that vestige of masculinity left to him. Sherlock didn't make any comments on how John couldn't seem to sleep unless he stuck to Sherlock like a limpet. No rejection, no cute remarks, no censure. Nothing but an easy acceptance that had John guiltily wondering about Sherlock's past - and his own new-found tendencies - and growing increasingly uncertain about - well, just about everything.

"Penny for your thoughts."

John looked up and felt himself flushing. "Canadian, or American?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever."

"Just thinking."

"Yes, that much I figured out on my own."

John felt himself smile, but he stayed silent.

The cool weather continued, and that night John shivered when he crawled into bed.

With the flatmate, the voice told him with mock innocence.

Whatever, he thought, and pulled up the blanket.

* * *

By the time they passed Thunder Bay, Ontario, John was getting tired of driving. Tired of the car, tired of traveling. Which somehow didn't quite translate to "ready to go home" quite yet, but which made him feel antsy, what his mum would have called "a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs."

So he surrendered the wheel with a sense of relief, and tried not to think about anything at all.

"Tired of Canada?" Sherlock was smiling, like he'd been waiting to drive and was thankful John finally gave in.

"Don't know. You?"

"Yes."

John frowned. "How long can you be gone?"

"Twenty minutes?" Sherlock laughed, sounding so ridiculously young and, well, human, John couldn't help grinning, too. "Lestrade's got things in hand. I think he's enjoying holding the reins and having more control over the crime scenes."

John laughed lightly.

Sherlock glanced at a semi passing them at full blast. "What do _you_ want to do?" he asked, facing forward again. "Any ideas?"

John slumped back in his seat. "Not really," he answer honestly. "Let's go back."

He could feel Sherlock's sharp gaze on him. "You sure?"

"No. But what else would we go? Calgary?"

"Wherever you say."

"Ever been to British Columbia?"

Sherlock gave him another sharp look. "You do realize that's a hell of a long way from here."

John nodded. "Look, you know, I could drop you off at the airport. You could catch a flight home. I'll be okay."

"You sure?"

John drew a breath to reply, and Sherlock continued, "Because I think you're better, John, but I'm not going to ditch you and find out you disappeared again. That's - No."

"I won't disappear."

"No, because you'll be with me."

"Sherlock-"

"I only take a personal holiday once every five years." Sherlock interrupted. "This is my holiday, you know."

"God, I hope not."

"Why not? Road trip, see some serious country, good company - what's not to like?"

"Oh, let me count the ways," John replied dryly.

"Don't worry about it, okay? Just relax."

Riiight. He'd been sort of relaxed, but now his nerves were jittering like cold water on a hot skillet. Great work, John. Not only have you fucked up your own job, but now you're cutting into Sherlock's, too.

"I sense you continuing to worry."

"What kind of strings did you have to pull to do this?" John asked tightly, feeling his jaw start to ache. "Don't tell me you didn't, because I know what kind of a place London and the Yard is... Not to mention Mycroft always needing your help. There's no way you could just disappear and people don't notice."

"Funny, that's exactly what I thought when you did it," Sherlock shot back.

"Place isn't going to fall apart because I'm not there. I'm a cog in the wheel. You're the wheel, Sherlock. You they'll miss."

Sherlock's knuckles looked a little tight on the steering wheel. "Let me tell you a story, John. No, don't talk," he added when John drew a frustrated breath. "Just listen. Once upon a time there was this man. Good at his job, well-liked and respected by his flatmate and colleagues. A nice man.

"A long time ago something very bad happened to our man. But lately something triggered in his mind a moment of past events. Something no one could have predicted, and no one could have prevented. And it hurt him a lot. And finally it got so bad that he took some time off."

"Sher -"

"Shut up. Now this man's friends and family were pretty worried about him. They understood what was going on, or at least they were fairly sure they mostly did, but they couldn't help worrying. After all, he was important to them. They _noticed_ when he was gone. Like the hole where a tooth has been, the way your tongue keeps looking around for something that's not there anymore.

"So one day his flatmate sat around a table and thought about what he should do. Because, you see, he had to do _something_. And he thought about it, and thought about it some more and he didn't know what to do. But then his flatmate had an idea." Sherlock glanced over at John, his eyes thunderously dark. "That's the key, John. The moral to this little story. Your flatmate had an idea and agreed you are important. Very important.. This was the right thing to do."

"So stop worrying, all right? They would miss you John. I'd...I... Well, I don't want to sit around and do nothing while you're in trouble. I can't do that. Do you understand?"

His chest hurt so bad, he thought maybe he was having some kind of heart attack. "Yeah," John wheezed without strength. "I - I got it."

"Good." Sherlock looked at him again, and some of the fierce emotion cooled a little. "So, are we staying in Canada or not? Did we decide that?"

John smiled a tiny bit. "Not really. How far to London from here?"

"Home it is."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice.

* * *

"You talk to Lestrade today?"

Sherlock spat out toothpaste and shook his head. "He'll call if he wants. He's got the number."

"We'll be back by Sunday. Maybe you should call him." John shrugged out of his shirt.

"Tomorrow, maybe."

John nodded, and tried to sidle out of the way as Sherlock left the bathroom.

It didn't work, and later he thought that that was pretty much the moment the slippery slope became less of a stumble and more of a freefall.

Sherlock's hand came out, just an automatic touch, but his hand on John's bare waist was like a caress from a cattle prod. John gasped, stiffening, and Sherlock's touch tightened with quick concern. Thereby compounding the issue.

"You okay? What? What's wrong?"

It felt as if his entire blood supply had cleanly divided in half. Half went to his face, the biggest fucking blush he could ever remember experiencing. And the other half went immediately and most embarrassingly straight to his dick.

"N - Nothing," John mumbled frantically. "S'okay." He stepped back, trying to do - something, not sure what, either break Sherlock's dangerous touch or else maybe, what, he had no idea.

"It's okay."

"No, it's not," John whispered urgently. "It's really not."

He almost _felt_ it when Sherlock finally got the message. Hopefully it was because of their proximity, and not because of the spectacular boner John was now sporting. "Oh. John -"

"I need to grab a shower." He tried getting around again, only this time Sherlock blocked him on purpose.

"What is it? Tell me."

"NO."

"You -"

"I CAN'T!" John cried miserably, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Look at me. Do it, John, look at me."

Hot, absurd tears burned his eyes. He flickered a glance up and oh CHRIST, Sherlock's face was just too fucking close, it wasn't SAFE, didn't he get that? What did it take, a neon sign? "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

Then Sherlock reached out and pulled him close, and oh BOY if he hadn't figured out John's problem with Mr. Chubby by now this had pretty much given it away. But some rebellious part of him - probably the part controlling his dick right now - was overjoyed, so relieved it made him wordless, so intent it sent his own arms sliding around Sherlock's waist before his rational mind had a second to veto the action.

"John." Sherlock's voice sounded odd. Deeper, maybe. "It's okay. It's really okay."

It's not okay, his rational mind informed him coldly. It's most definitely not not not-okay.

Fuck that, his non-rational dick said, just before it sent him leaning forward, yearning with every cell in his body for something that he had no right to want. _I'm_ in control here, not you, so fuck off.

The thing that shocked him then, the only thing that evidently had the power to break the spell of the non-rational, happened just after his lips touched Sherlock's. Because it felt so good he wanted to cry, but look here, Sherlock's got a woody to match John's, and seems to be enjoying this - say it, this KISS - every bit as much as John is.

Which was the thing that suddenly made the rational take over, and had him pulling away with a broken, "No."

* * *

"I'm sorry," John said from the other side of the room. Again.

He didn't have the nerve to look at Sherlock - again - and once again, Sherlock just said, "Don't be sorry."

Well, this was a pretty picture, now, wasn't it? The Shorter Man, standing by the door in case he decides to bolt because holy SHIT, he realizes this could actually happen instead of being some kind of fucking perverted wet dream. And the Taller Man, wise beyond his years, sitting Yoda-like on the bed, cryptic smile firmly in place. You know those young guys. Nervy things, can't scare 'em off. Isn't that right, Sherlock?

"Look, would you just sit down? You're making this into a very big deal, John."

Oho, the wise man speaks. John stopped pacing and stared at him, stung. But when he tried to speak, nothing useful come out. It IS a big deal. Is it? Evidently not. So ignore it and it'll go away? That was how he'd learned to deal, himself. Maybe Sherlock had, too.

Or maybe Sherlock really didn't think anything had happened, but that was impossible, right? Because something had.

Was Sherlock really that out of touch?

The man in question patted the bed. "Come on. Sit down."

John edged over and sat about as far away as he could without falling on the floor. When Sherlock didn't say anything else, John swallowed hard. "Okay, I'm sitting down now. Happy?"

"Not particularly."

John nodded woodenly, staring at the bedspread on the opposite bed. "I didn't - mean for that to happen. I think maybe I am kinda crazy right now."

"Understandably."

"I don't - I don't usually -"

"I don't care."

John gave him a startled look, and Sherlock sighed. "Who was it? Elvis Costello? Said, 'Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.'"

"I, uh. What?"

"I don't care what you 'usually'. All right?"

"Huh? I'm still - Elvis Costello?"

"Never mind. Come here?"

Sherlock's arm around him felt so good, so right. John froze in place.

"Everything's okay, John." Sherlock sighed, pulling John against him. "If anything I said - before - made you feel as if this was your fault, I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"It wasn't just your idea, you know. I wanted to kiss you, too."

John clenched his eyes shut.

"If you don't want that, it's okay. I just want you to know that there's nothing wrong with it. That's all."

But there is, John thought desperately. Oh, there is.

"Talk to me, John, okay?" Sherlock sounded a little strained now. "I don't have ESP. Despite what others might say."

"I don't - know what to say."

"Want me to stop?"

John sighed inside the circle of Sherlock's arm. Let go? No, he didn't want that. He shook his head.

"Come on. You're tired. Let's get some sleep."

He let Sherlock draw him down on the bed, not the same position as before. Before it had been John who clung to Sherlock. Now it was Sherlock who spooned up behind him, one arm looped around John's waist, hand flat on John's belly.

The panic was still circling, sniffing around, looking for a toehold. And his mind busily informed him, once again, of how this looked. You could sugarcoat it before, Johnny, you can sugarcoat it now, but what you KNOW is that you really don't want to go to sleep, do you?

With the same feeling as before - Oh God, he was freefalling - John rolled over, coming face to face with Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were soft in the dimness, but impossible to read. And it was all too easy to let go of his fear, let it dissipate in the warmth of Sherlock's body next to his own, and push himself over to meet his ready mouth.

The joy was still there, a kind of incredulous WOW, but this time there was also relief, the feeling a dying man might have when he hit the morphine button yet again. It might not fix things, not forever, but it felt so damn good.

John made a soft sound deep in his throat, letting Sherlock pull him closer until their bodies lined up. The most thorough kiss John had ever known, the first time he could remember ever being the complete focus of Sherlock's fearsome attention. He felt a little like one of Sherlock's treasured experiments, only he wasn't trapped in a petrie dish. Just their bodies, connected at the mouth, hands, arms, legs. Groin.

Oh yeah.

Tears stinging tiresomely behind his eyes, John broke the neverending kiss and gasped for air. And then gasped again when Sherlock simply changed that terrible focus, kissing beneath John's jaw, to his throat, up to an ear and then to the vulnerable place where his jaw ended, a place other people had kissed, sure other women, you mean but never like this, never with this kind of singleminded enjoyment.

"God," John gasped without thinking, and flopped over on his back, bringing Sherlock down on top of him.

Sherlock smiled an inch from his face, and bent to kiss his mouth again.

* * *

He woke up early, not even dawn yet if the dark behind the curtains was any clue. For a second he had no idea where he was. There was absolutely nothing familiar in this room. No sounds, no outlines of furniture he could identify. Just dark, and a rising feeling of indescribable panic.

Someone sighed next to him, and John rolled away with a wrenching gasp, coming to rest on his knees at the edge of the bed.

Evidence, Johnny boy. Let's see. You have no clothes on. From the looks of it neither does Sherlock.

Remember now?

You fucking queer.

With a wounded sound John pushed himself back, but there was no more bed. Just a wall, the feel of his head thumping against sheetrock, and bedclothes tangled around one of his feet.

"John?" Sherlock said slightly groggy, sitting up. "You okay?"

He fought the sheet until he could get untangled, and then scrabbled to his feet.

Inside the bathroom he closed and locked the door, hands shaking so badly even the thumb latch was a challenge. The bright fluorescent bulbs were absolutely unforgiving. John glanced at his nude body in the mirror

My, my, don't you have that well-fucked look, my friend, that post-coital glow, should we say, FAG ...and recoiled, averting his eyes and going over to turn on the shower.

"John?"

Shit.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Jesus, it was hard to breathe. Steam was filling the room, but his throat was closing up, and in the midst of everything else one thought popped into his mind, so sharp and horribly clear that he couldn't even begin to argue.

You're dying. You're gonna die, John.

Allergic reaction, maybe. Allergic to what? No, asthma. Been years since he fought with that, but he remembered now, that awful struggle to get air OUT, never mind in.

DYING. Call 999. Someone has to help me, please, HELP, help me.

He leaned against the sink and opened the door, revealing Sherlock's worried face.

"John!"

Good, Sherlock would know what to do. He let Sherlock catch him, free now to be as terrified as his body demanded, because at least someone KNEW, someone could help him when he

DIED

"Breathe, John." Distant, cool words, but why wasn't Sherlock getting off his ass and calling the fucking CAVALRY? His chest hurt, maybe this was a fucking heart attack, a bit too young and nothing wrong but there WAS something wrong, he was DYING, couldn't Sherlock see that?

"It's a panic attack, John," came Sherlock's awful, reassuring voice. "Come on. Relax. Let go."

"Can't - breathe."

"Yes, you can. I promise. Just ride it out. It's going to be okay."

He pulled against Sherlock's hold but it didn't work. And he _could_ breathe, after all, but with that realization came the shakes, huge terrible trembling that made him feel weak as a day-old pup.

Sherlock's arms were strong around him, soothing voice still going. "It's okay, John, you're fine. See? Already better. That's it."

His cheeks felt cold and wet. "What - happened?" he wheezed out.

"Later. Just relax, breathe. You're okay."

"Sherlock."

"I won't let anything happen to you, I promise. Just relax. Close your eyes."

John sobbed once, and let his head sag back against Sherlock's chest.

End Part One


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Explicit, Rated M, Johnlock, PTSD, John angst

Part Two

* * *

"We could take a break."

John glanced up from tying his trainers. "Huh?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and kept staring out the window. Not much to see. Great view of the car park. "Explore."

"What's there to explore around here?"

"That's the thing. I have no idea." Sherlock turned a smile in his direction. "I've never been in here. Terra incognita."

"Kinda boring terra."

"Perhaps. Let's find out."

With a disgruntled feeling he didn't quite understand, John shrugged. "We're only two kilometers from the airport with tickets in hand and you want to explore again?"

The smile didn't falter. "Tickets can be changed, John. Or do you not want to explore?"

"I'm okay. You said it yourself. Just nerves."

"Exactly. And the closer we get to London, the worse they get. Don't they?"

"I guess," John mumbled.

"So let's sightsee. Go out tonight, do something besides sit in a hotel. What do you say?"

"Whatever you want."

His lack of enthusiasm was either dealt with or ignored, he couldn't say which. But they did sightsee. Killed a few hours. Much bigger than he'd thought, and much more cosmopolitan. Interesting to see a city that wasn't quite as tacky as London could be. Not tacky at all, in fact.

"A lot of people stopped here before heading west," Sherlock remarked, gazing out the window at the enormous, ornate houses they were passing. "It was a primary staging area for pioneers."

"The Chamber of Commerce should hire you," John replied dryly.

"Indeed."

John watched the houses go by, pretty, sure, what the hell, better than looking at Sherlock's concerned face.

And superimposed over that, another face. Not nearly so handsome, and a whole different flavor of caring. The terrible interest of a madman, maybe. Moriarty holding a military style assault rifle. Two traumatic events in his life beginning to meld together.

He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

They had lunch late, no crowds, which was a relief. He picked at his pasta and pretended he was eating, but hell, who was he trying to kid? Not like he'd been able to slip anything by Sherlock before, and for sure not now.

"Want to talk about it?"

John glanced over at Sherlock and shrugged. "I freaked."

"Well, yes."

His cheeks burned. "I don't regret it," he added hoarsely.

Sherlock smiled a little. "The 'freaking', or the other stuff?"

"The other stuff."

"Neither do I."

He speared a piece of chicken on his fork. "I think -" He set his fork down. "I think that's what Moriarty wanted, too."

Sherlock's eyebrow went up, but he said nothing. He looked doubtful.

John hesitated, but continued. "He… Before the pool, before the…" John motioned to his chest, indicating the vest of explosives. "He had me for three hours. A madman, ranting. Obsessed. Made comments to me…" John struggled with the rest of the words so he stopped. "He called me your dog."

"Pet." Sherlock corrected, as if that made it better.

"I'm just saying…It's not just you it seems he could be obsessed with."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively and John fell silent. Obviously, Sherlock didn't take this opinion seriously. John felt wounded, but didn't show it.

They fell quiet for a few minutes.

"So did you freak?" John asked tentatively, changing the subject as best he could.

"Not exactly. In my own way, yes."

John stared down at the napkin he held. "I don't feel like I'll ever feel safe again," he mumbled, and started tearing the napkin into long shreds. "Between the war, the kidnapping, bombs going off …all the crimes… I don't feel safe."

Sherlock nodded. "Our mind is a sanctuary, it's where we relax, become fully ourselves." He pushed his plate away. "When someone violates that sanctuary, it can be very hard to get past it."

"Maybe put up some bolted doors? Create my own 'mind palace'?"

"That's a start." Sherlock smiled. "Come on. Let's get out of here and go for a walk."

Outside the weather was gorgeous, warm and sunny, and John inhaled deeply before glancing at Sherlock. "Feel better?" Sherlock asked, still smiling.

"Think so, yeah."

"Good."

After some wandering there was a park, sprawling and not too filled with people. John sat next to Sherlock on a bench and leaned his head back, soaking in the sun.

"So that was a panic attack, huh."

Sherlock nodded, unreadable. "Yes."

"Never had one, heard of them obviously and seen patients with them. Probably have come close, what with the nightmares but I always kept enough in check... I just- I was just so sure I was dying."

"Textbook."

John squinted at him. "What happens if I have another one?"

"We'll deal with it."

"Thank you," John whispered thickly.

They had dinner that night at some out-of-the-way bistro, where the smell of good bread and savory things actually awakened John's dormant appetite. Or maybe his body was finally screaming, ENOUGH! Eat or DIE, you moron! Whatever the case, he cleaned his plate and caught Sherlock's approving look.

"I do eat, you know," John said tartly.

"I see that," came the grave reply, which made him laugh.

A couple of beers at a tiny microbrewery later, and John was ready to call it a night. Unsure whether or not Sherlock's sudden social turn had eased up or what, but he didn't object to going back to the hotel. And when John walked inside their room, a familiar sense of unease reared its head and made his throat feel tight.

"I'd offer a penny for your thoughts, but in this case I think I don't need to," Sherlock said softly.

John wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"I'll offer a pound if you'll stop saying that."

John turned him a shaky smile. "Make it 100 and I'll try."

Sherlock smiled back. "When you come home John, what do you normally do? You check the blog? Emails? See what's on telly?"

"You know that's what I do."

Sherlock reached for the remote and to both of their amused amazement, Jeopardy was on. They watched silently together, comfortable that whatever anxiety he still felt didn't seem very powerful when Sherlock kissed him. It was just a kiss. A very good kiss, in fact.

"Don't you want to see who wins?" John asked fuzzily, propped on one elbow while he let himself explore Sherlock's neck with his lips.

"I already know."

"You do, huh."

"Yes."

Of course he did. He caught a flash of Sherlock's grin before another kiss erased all thought of the sand, the pool and anything else.

* * *

Later, Sherlock paused, staring down at him. "What?"

"Nothing," John gasped, swallowing hard. "I'm okay. Christ, you're - really good at that."

Sherlock gave him a tiny smile and leaned down to kiss him luxuriantly. "I was always an overachiever," he murmured against John's mouth. "Can't get enough of you."

When Sherlock drew back again, there was an expression on his face John had never seen before. "What?" he asked, feeling a little like Sherlock himself. "What is it?"

"You know you can set the limits, right? Tell me if I do something you don't want to do."

"S-sure."

Sherlock sat back on his haunches, stroking the insides of John's thighs where they lay open over Sherlock's lap. "I don't want to go too fast," he said quietly.

John's throat was suddenly very dry. "You want to fuck me, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"I've never -"

"I know."

Heart thudding in his chest, John blurted, "I don't know if I can do that."

"I won't make you. Trust me, John. I won't make you do something you don't want to do."

"Even if you want it?"

"Even if I want it."

John sighed, turning his face away. "I don't know what it's like," he said clumsily, feeling his cheeks burning. Sherlock's hands on his thighs felt almost unbearably good. Making him hard again, damn it. "I guess - I thought about it a few times."

"That's promising." Sherlock untangled himself from John's legs and lay down beside him, on his side, head propped on his hand. "What did you think about?"

Rolling over to face him, John sighed. "I dunno. Every time I think about it… I think about… him."

"You can't be sure that's what he really wanted, John," Sherlock said softly, reaching out to touch his thumb to John's cheek. "I'm not sure you can boil it down to sex. It's clearly not about you, he's admitted it's about me. You were just a tool he used to get to me. How can you be so sure that that's it?"

"I know. Just a feeling." John smiled, flushing harder. He knew Sherlock needed facts, not feelings, so he would dismiss it. "Jeez, I can't believe I'm sitting here - lying here - having this conversation."

Sherlock smiled, too. "Can't say I planned it, myself."

John drew a deep breath. "But you thought about it? About me?"

"Give me a second to think about how to answer this without seriously undermining my reputation."

"So you did."

"Yes."

John gazed at him, recognizing the flush in Sherlock's cheeks with wonder. "Wow," he said weakly. "I had no idea."

"Good. Hopefully my professional image isn't too tarnished, then."

"Well, with me -"

"With the others," Sherlock interrupted with a grin, and bent forward to kiss him. A kiss that led to more kisses, and John had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out when Sherlock's thigh slid between his own.

"So this sex thing," he mumbled against Sherlock's neck. "Hurts, right?"

"At first, a little." Sherlock kissed him briefly and deeply. "Not forever. There's a reason why people keep doing it, you know," he added with a flashing smile.

"I - Well, yeah. Hadn't thought about it that way."

"There are many other things we can do, John," Sherlock whispered, taking John's hand and sliding it between his own legs. "Many, many other things."

Smiling, John leaned forward to kiss him, inhaling Sherlock's harsh gasp when John took him in hand and stroked surely and easily.

* * *

They sat together in the boarding area of the airport. Sherlock's phone beeped. What was that, the… seventh time today? The more overdue they got, the more strident the calls. Sherlock sighed as another text came through. John didn't ask but he felt he knew. More crimes, cases, murders, rapes… All sitting unsolved and John almost felt guilty about his own worries. Sherlock's jaw was tense.

The wheel and the cog, remember?

"I'm -"

"Don't say it, John. They can manage."

John refocused straight ahead.

"I have to go to the Yard when we get in," Sherlock said crisply, fingers briskly tapping texts on his phone, as if they really were already back. John's stomach clenched. "Just to reassure everyone we are indeed still alive. An hour, tops."

John nodded mechanically. An hour for Sherlock meant eight. He did have a tendency to run off on cases that intrigued him.

"I mean that, alright? Just an hour."

John looked at him, meeting Sherlock's steady, all-too-knowing gaze. "Right," he said faintly.

"I'll drop you off at Baker Street. You can catch your breath, and I won't be long."

"Okay."

He felt Sherlock ease, just a faint bit.

One layover and more hours than he cared to count, they were back.

* * *

John edged cautiously into the kitchen, all familiar sounds and smells of their flat.

He'd wandered back into the living room when Sherlock re-emerged, on the phone again and carrying one shoe in his hand. "I told you, I'll come by in a few minutes. But I'm still on holiday, remember? So don't count on me sticking around." A pause, while he dropped the shoe on the floor, stuck his foot in it, and listened. "John's fine. Good." He glanced at John and smiled. "See you when I get there."

John smiled weakly. "Greg?"

"Detective Inspector Lastrade, yes. I don't think he wants to be the 'boss' anymore," he added, straightening the crease in his pants and added a wink to John.

"Well, you do set the bar pretty high."

Sherlock looked at him, and then walked over, plucking a finger on John's hand like a violin string. An odd gesture, but purely Sherlock. "Maybe," he replied, smiling. "Welcome home, John."

"Thanks."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, reaching out to take John's free hand. "It's going to be okay," he said quietly, pressing a kiss on John's fingers. "Come on, sit down."

"One step at a time, okay? Bird by bird, John, just take it bird by bird."

John smiled inside the comforting loop of Sherlock's arm. "What quote is that?"

"Wonderful book on writing. That's the title: Bird by Bird. Anne Lamott."

"Is there anything you don't read?"

"Far too much to even consider. Lamott got the title of the book from something her father said to her brother one time. Child was agonizing over a book report on birds that was due the next morning, that he hadn't even started yet. So her father said -"

"-Take it bird by bird." John nodded, brushing his cheek against Sherlock's shirt. "I get it."

"And when you're ready to come back to work, come back. I don't plan to replace you, you know. Not unless you tell me to. But I think we both know I wouldn't."

"No," John whispered roughly. "I'll come back."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, reassured. "Good."

It felt both astoundingly weird and terribly reassuring to kiss him, back on home soil, back in a city he hadn't really known if he'd ever see again. The city he still wasn't sure about; the kiss, well. Pretty much felt great.

"I really have to go."

John sighed against Sherlock's throat, relishing the way Sherlock shivered in response. "I'll kick your arse if you stay all night," he murmured, smiling.

"Keep that up and I won't go at all."

"Promise?"

Sherlock drew back to kiss him once, firmly, on the mouth. His face was gratifyingly flushed. "You're really not playing fair, you know," he said in a hilariously plaintive voice.

John grinned, and shrugged. "I'd apologize, but."

"Yes. Okay." Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. "Okay. Good bye John."

Mercifully the ridiculous blather that immediately popped into his head - I need you - didn't make it past his lips. John nodded. "I'll be okay, Sherlock. Go do your thing."

"Back in a few."

* * *

Someone touched his arm, and he awoke with a jerk.

"It's just me."

John blinked in the darkness. Shit, what the hell time was it?

The bed shifted when Sherlock sat down.

"Thought you said an hour," John said muzzily.

"Well." Now there was a faintly guilty tinge to the words. "Not much more than an hour. You alright?"

That's called deflecting, John considered saying, and then let it go. "I crashed. I smell food."

"I brought back some takeout." Sherlock brushed John's cheek with his fingers. "Hungry?"

"I guess."

He trailed behind Sherlock out to the dining room, where he sat down and stared at his kung pao chicken. Ah. Their comfort food.

"So how was it? Good to be back? What interesting cases this time?"

Sherlock fished out a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks. "Some things never change," he said through his food. "One thing's for sure: We'll never be out of a job."

John nodded, and poked at his food with a fork. "How's everybody doing?"

"Fine. They asked about you."

"Donovan too?"

"Donovan too."

Sherlock went quiet, working on his food while John faked same, and finally put his chopsticks down. "You're tired," he observed mildly.

Talk about a keen grasp of the obvious. "Yes. More than I thought, I suppose."

"Go back to bed, okay? I'll be in in a minute."

With a sadness that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, John trudged back to the bedroom. Pretty basic, but Sherlock had a comfortable bed, and that was primary, he supposed. His skin prickled with sudden nameless dread, and he sat down hard on the bed's edge.

Well, now's a shitty time to have another freakout, Johnny boy. What do they say about making your own bed? Lie down, boy. Johnny boy. Why had he called him Johnny boy? The pet… Come on lie down boy.

And spread 'em.

He stifled whatever sound was trying to get out of his throat, and stood up fast. The room was way too small suddenly. The flat was too small, hell, the fucking CITY was too small. Couldn't fucking BREATHE here.

"John?"

This time the sound made it out anyway; a strangled kind of yelp that made him feel like laughing hysterically at the same time that he felt his throat immediately closing up. Oh CHRIST, not this again, no no FUCK NO

But this time it didn't help when Sherlock came over. John pushed at him wildly, staggering back against the far wall. One hand went to his throat, and all that was in his head suddenly was digging his nails in and getting it OUT, whatever it was that wasn't letting him breathe, that was CHOKING him.

"John, stop it." Strong hands on his wrists, pulling, and he snarled something and pushed again, hard, but Sherlock held on anyway.

And something inside him shivered and broke, like a glass shattering on concrete.

He struggled inside Sherlock's arms, panting and shaking his head, and in the midst of it all he could say was, "I don't want to be here, please, I don't, please just let me GO, please."

"Jesus, John," Sherlock said hoarsely. His arms were shaking, too. "It's okay, it's okay." Sherlock sounded helpless, and it was that tone that made John frantic.

"It's NOT okay!" John dug his hands into Sherlock's shirt, pulling until the fabric started to tear. "It's not fucking OKAY!" He said it with the same vehemence as in the lab, trying to tell Sherlock of the Hound he KNEW he saw.

"No, it's not, is it." Sherlock's grip loosened, and John clung harder, irrationally.

"Sherlock," he gasped. "Oh God, I'm going crazy."

"You're not crazy, you're not. I swear to God you're not."

"Don't let go of me," John whispered fiercely, blinking away tears. "Please, please don't let go?"

Sherlock's arms linked around John's waist. "I won't. I promise you."

"I don't know what's happening to me. Sherlock, I'm so fucking scared."

"Just breathe, John," Sherlock murmured, rocking him gently. "Hold on, and breathe. That's it."

After a long, blank moment of nothing but the reassuring solidity of Sherlock's body against his own, Sherlock said softly, "Come on, John. Lie down. You're so tired."

God, he was tired, and yet every muscle in his body burned, too, jittery with a fear he couldn't even begin to quantify, much less really understand yet. He let Sherlock lay him on the bed, and managed to loosen his death grip on Sherlock's shirt long enough for Sherlock to slip out of it and lie down next to him. And then it was so much like that first night, that first time in too long that he'd felt truly safe, that he clung with mindless, frantic strength all over again.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock whispered, one hand smoothing down John's back in long even strokes. "Nothing's going to happen to you tonight. I won't let anything happen. Close your eyes."

He breathed in the clean smell of Sherlock's aftershave and did so, gratefully.

* * *

It was a perfect day. Not too hot, yet, and of course no humidity. All in all, a great day to be outside.

John poked at chicken in the pan and squinted. What time had Sherlock said he'd be back? Four hours ago, or five?

Ah, what the hell. He picked up the plate and started laying more chicken breasts on the pan, breathing in the savory sizzle.

By the time Sherlock actually did get back, the sun was almost gone, the neighbor's dog was whining next door, and the chicken looked and smelled fantastic.

"Hey, good timing," John called, seeing Sherlock at the back door. "Hungry?"

"Starving." Sherlock walked into the kitchen and blinked at the cooking. "Didn't know you did that."

"I can't." John grinned, forking the last piece of chicken on a platter. "I can try, though."

"In this kitchen? Didn't know it was still capable. Smells fantastic. Thank you." Sherlock came over and kissed him soundly.

John nodded, covering the pan and reaching down to close the vents. "I figure I better do something other than occupy space, you know? Called my mum for her recipe. Come on, I got a salad, too."

Sherlock ate hugely, and John took one bite and felt a wave of sweet homesickness wash over him. So this was Mum's secret recipe. Tasted just like home.

"It's all in the marinade," John said when Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look of approval.

When most of the food was demolished and the rest put away John stood and looked out the large windows of the living room. A great day had turned into a gorgeous evening, cool and tangy with lingering cooking smells and the aroma of mesquite. "So how was work?" he asked.

"Exactly the way I left it. You ought to come see everyone. They still ask about you."

John's replete smile faded. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Yeah, I'd like to see them, too."

They were silent again for a moment, and John was growing comfortable with this. They often before had long stretches of silence together but this… Was definitely more comfortable than before.

"I've been thinking about work," John said finally.

"Oh?"

"I do want to come back."

"Well, you know you can, anytime you want."

John nodded. "I appreciate that."

"Personally I think your colleague is a candidate for sainthood."

"How much can I laugh before you fire me?"

"Try me and see."

John grinned and glanced at Sherlock, absurdly pleased to see the relaxed look on Sherlock's face. "How about next week?"

"Next week would be fine." Sherlock took a step closer and slid his arm around John's waist, and John felt the constant hard knot in his chest loosen a bit.

John turned and gave in to the hug he'd wanted all evening. "Ok," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning against Sherlock. "That's good."

* * *

Considering the fact that he had about as much experience sucking cock as Sherlock did as a fraternity president, he thought he was picking up the technique pretty well. He waited for the sarcastic internal commentary, but for once the nasty voice was silent. Thank God. Because this took some focus, after all.

"Shit," Sherlock groaned, hands tense at his sides. "You've been - s-studying."

"I have a great teacher. I know what you wanna do. Do it."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Come on." John encouraged.

A little part of him still marveled at this, and probably would for a while yet, but it hadn't taken long to find out he kind of enjoyed Sherlock taking over, at least in some areas. It felt weirdly good to feel Sherlock's hands holding his head steady, to just - take it, grabbing a breath when he could and just -

Okay, the swallowing part was still a work in progress. Sorta choked him, and the taste was going to be, um. Acquired. But it was amazing to hear Sherlock come. Noisy and completely uninhibited, total about-face from the public persona, the Vulcan.

Crazy to be proud of making some guy come, but then this wasn't some guy, was it?

He held the tip of Sherlock's softening cock in his mouth, until Sherlock finally opened his eyes and blinked at him.

"I really like that look," John said softly, and licked his lips.

Sherlock smiled. "Come here," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah, I quite like it." John crawled back up to blanket Sherlock with his body, and got a slow, sated kiss. "You like it?"

"I like it," Sherlock whispered. His fingers trailed down John's spine while they kissed again. When Sherlock's hand reached his ass John drew a sharp breath, an unexpected shiver of - something, something not at all bad - making him arch his back. "You like that?" Sherlock asked smokily, mouth quirked in a smile.

John nodded, shivering again as Sherlock's hands cupped his ass, gently kneading. "Can't keep - your hands off that, can you?" he managed.

"Come here."

He kneed his way up the bed, steadied by Sherlock's grip on his ass. Christ, his dick had been hard before but now it felt like he could probably hammer fucking NAILS with it, and there was Sherlock, just eating him up like he was candy.

* * *

John threw his head back and groaned, because as great as it felt to get his cock sucked, it was somehow just as great or maybe even better to look down and see his dick disappear down Sherlock's THROAT, and if he watched too much he'd just blow his load in a millisecond, JESUS H. CHRIST.

Sherlock's fingers stroked past his asshole, and John felt a jolt of heat sear through nerves he hadn't ever thought much about, a warm wash of sensation from his ass straight to his dick.

"Ah, FUCK."

Sherlock chuckled and the sensation was indescribable. And then something was IN his ass, a warm, slim, slippery fingerlike something, that didn't feel bad but felt mindbogglingly GOOD, and John's brain melted.

Only gone a few seconds, but MAN, what a way to go. He tried to breathe, still flexing and jerking in hectic tandem, and finally Sherlock let him go, dick and ass both, which was probably necessary for continued cognitive function but that didn't mean he had to like it, DAMN, wish that few seconds could last HOURS, fucking DAYS.

Somehow he got himself untangled from sheet and pillow and managed to lie down without falling off the bed, all twitches and limp muscles, and Sherlock pulled him close against his side and kissed him. Weird to know that was his come in Sherlock's mouth. So weird it was sort of hard to think about.

"So," John wheezed, collapsing bonelessly.

"So." He could almost hear Sherlock's grin.

"So that was my ass."

Now Sherlock laughed. "Among other things."

"Not too bad."

"Not too bad?" Sherlock yelped indignantly, and John snorted laughter. Raising himself on one shaky elbow, he made a considering face.

"I guess I'd be willing to give this thing a try," he murmured, feeling his heart do a little skip in his chest.

"Would you, now."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah." He didn't feel much like laughing anymore. "I would."

Sherlock locked eyes with him, a potent gaze that made John's chest tighten up again. "So would I," he whispered.

* * *

The first case John was back on was easily a 4 on the scale for Sherlock. John was sure he took it because it was "easy" and therefore "harmless" for John's current mental state. Lastrade wasn't even at the crime scene, it was one lieutenant and clearly two rookies.

"This is the case you want to take? Please don't patronize me Sherlock, you can do what you want, take any case you want." John sounded exasperated.

Sherlock strolled along the police tape, hands behind his back. "Oh? Disappearing woman from a locked room? Doesn't intrigue you?"

John stared flatly at Sherlock, studying him. He sighed. "Fine then. Let's get to work."

* * *

They hailed a cab home only 2 hours and 39 minutes later, crime successfully solved. The woman was dead, stuffed in an air vent of the facility. Custodial staff member who's advances were brushed away. Blunt force trauma to the head John had said. Obvious, really. Clearly a 4.

"At least that's over."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, and he didn't have to. They both knew it. There'd be something else waiting for them tomorrow. Probably worse, but what could you do? Keep your head down and focus on the evidence, wasn't that what Sherlock always said? There were worse ways to work.

But it didn't lift his spirits, regardless. He watched the city go by outside the cab, ordinary people, people who didn't have to find dead women stashed in air vents, or listen to the fucking cries of innocence from guys who were so guilty they might as well have five-foot neon signs flashing over their heads.

Truth was, evidence was horrible. And that meant that a hell of a lot of people were rotten to the core, since it was their evidence that he and Sherlock hunted all night. Like reading spoor in a jungle, predatorial droppings like souvenirs of sickness.

And he wanted to come back to this?

Should have stayed in Canada.

"Don't do that, John," Sherlock said softly.

"I'm not doing anything."

Sherlock didn't bother replying to that one.

* * *

Returning back to Baker Street, John headed straight to bed. No food. No telly. No blogging. Just bed.

Sherlock sat down next to him on the edge, his body vibrated nervousness. It didn't suit him. "Talk to me. All right?"

John shrugged, feeling muleish. "What do you want me to say? I'm glad to be back?"

"Say whatever you feel."

He glanced at Sherlock's concerned eyes and flinched. "I'll get used to it again," he muttered. "Just a weird night."

"Coming back tomorrow?"

John frowned at him. "Well, yeah," he said. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yes, you said you would." Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, half-turned in John's direction. His gaze felt all too penetrating. "But you're worrying me."

"Well, stop worrying," John replied harshly. "Just need to get my feet under me, is all. Get back in the groove. I'll be all right." He forced a fake smile and saw it register in Sherlock's slight recoil.

Maybe it was bad Sherlock didn't say anything back. But right now he just didn't much care.

* * *

By the end of the week, he acknowledged that something had to give. It was either him or the job, and he wasn't sure which.

Wasn't sure if it was the job at all, if the complete truth were told. Because the work didn't seem so bad after that first awful night.

He had one one particularly nagging problem John hadn't given that much thought to until now.

"Tell me how I'm supposed to act around you now," John said on Thursday afternoon.

To his credit Sherlock took the question pretty seriously, instead of saying something meaningless, like, "Oh, just be yourself."

"At a scene? Professional You know the answer to that."

"I guess." John shook his head and flopped down on the sofa. "Everything feels so different now."

"Well, it is different. You don't think I ask myself the same question?"

"You do?"

Sherlock smiled at him, and even from across the room John felt the power of that connection like a hard blow to the chest. "About every ten minutes or so, when I get the urge to do something untoward and highly unprofessional."

"You too?"

"Yes."

Small as such things went, maybe, but it felt pretty damn good even so. And John was ready for something that felt good, in the midst of feeling so uncertain - say it, Johnny, BAD - at work.

* * *

At a crime scene with Sherlock, a 7, he felt the pinging of a new panic attack circling him. He coughed abruptly and excused himself, stating he'd be back. He felt Sherlock's eyes boring into his back as he walked away.

He didn't come back.

* * *

"You want to talk about what happened?"

John tucked into a slice of toast. "Nope," he said indistinctly, reaching for his orange juice. Swallowing, he added, "Besides, isn't like you don't already know."

Sherlock nodded, reaching across the table and covering John's free hand with his own. "It won't always be like that. It'll get better."

"Yeah. I know." He squeezed Sherlock's fingers and smiled. "But thanks anyway."

"Of course."

Just when John was starting to think he wasn't hungry for bacon and eggs but maybe something a little more - untoward - Sherlock's mobile rang. "Hold that thought," Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair and pressing his phone. "Yes."

Well, maybe eggs weren't so bad after all. Funny how he felt so hungry lately. Making up for lost time, maybe? What the hell, gain a stone back and make his clothes fit again.

"What did you say?"

John looked up sharply. Sherlock's face was thunderous, lips set in a thin line while he listened. Eyes flickering up at John.

"What?" John asked hoarsely.

"And can you tell me just how in the FUCK that happened?" Sherlock nearly snarled into the phone.

His belly felt quick-frozen. Never heard Sherlock use that word before. Not the cursing type, for the most part. "Sherlock?" John croaked out, suddenly frightened.

Sherlock ended the call and slammed the phone down on the table with an angry slap, staring unseeingly at John. He lifted it again, dialing quickly. "Lastrade, it's Sherlock. Yes, I know. I've been told. Get a patrol car here, if you can. Right. Good."

"Patrol car?" John gazed at him, shaking his head slowly. "What's going on? Why do you need the police?"

"John." Sherlock sounded like he was strangling. "Listen. Something's happened."

Without thinking John stood up, so suddenly his thighs wobbled the table. "Well OBVIOUSLY. Something that made you call the police?" His voice sounded tinny in his own ears.

And oh, God DAMN he hated that solicitous worry-look Sherlock got.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, TELL ME."

Sherlock hesitated, chest only slightly heaving. Anger? Worry?

"They found something. The other day. Wasn't sure who, could have been a copy cat, could have been…" Sherlock wandered, before steeling himself. His piercing eyes bore into John. "Jim Moriarty. He left a message. Confirmed it's him. Stole a very expensive item from a museum. That's not important. What's important is what he left behind." Sherlock paused for a moment. "The message just had one sentence. "Get Watson."

"Oh," John said clearly.

Sherlock blinked. "John -"

He couldn't think, all of a sudden. The words didn't make any sense. "What does that mean?" He knew he sounded stupid, but that was the only thing that came out.

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "God, John, I'm sorry," he said unevenly. "You told me. You tried warning me, didn't you. I hadn't listened."

"Me? Why me?" John shook his head numbly. "Makes no sense Sherlock."

"Makes perfect sense."

John stared at Sherlock, dumbly.

"The pool, John." Sherlock stated, leading. "He said… He would 'burn the heart out of me'."

John shook his head. "What does that mean. Literally? Why me then? Why…" And John realized. And Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Oh."

End Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

Rating: Explicit, NC-17

* * *

He tries to remember all the right things to do. When Jim Moriarty ditches the cab, he tries to leave stuff behind. Something, anything to - what? Show them where they're going? He has no idea where that might be. How can he leave a clue he doesn't have?

Off the road there's another car, late-eighties-vintage Olds, with an engine that sounds surprisingly healthy. Inside is immaculate, lovingly kept, faint smell of perfume. Someone's loved this car, until it passed into Moriarty's sociopathic hands. And now John should do something. SOMEthing. But John's brain has gone on vacation, someplace a long way from where he is right now. All he can feel is dull anxiety that Sherlock will be disappointed in him, worrying about not being able to remember what he should do. As Sebastian drags John's arms behind his back and hauls him to the car, John digs his heels into the dirt in stumbled steps. He gets wrenched up for his efforts and thrown onto the floor of the backseat.

"Comfy?" Jim asks, smiling at him from behind the wheel.

"Why are you doing this?"

"After all we've been through, you have to ask? Come on, John, you already know."

John looks away, leaning forward a little to give his bound wrists an inch of room. "You can't get away with this," he says faintly. "You got no idea who you're dealing with."

"Oh, I think I know exactly who I'm dealing with." Jim puts the car in gear and eases them out into the road. "But I'm pretty sure we'll have all the time we need."

How long has it been since they left? An hour? Probably less. But he can't see Sherlock's face in his mind's eye anymore. He can remember what he looks like, but it's like listening to a witness give a physical description: a sum of features, but no face. No recognition.

More than anything else, that terrifies him. Everything else can go, Even the good stuff, it's okay. But not that. Please, please GOD not that.

* * *

-48 hours earlier-

Sherlock held out a cup of coffee, and John took it with icy fingers. The warm cup felt good.

"Better?"

"I'm okay," John muttered, sipping the coffee. Christ, he was tired of saying that. Wasn't doing a real good impression of being okay, now, was he?

"Why do you do that?"

He glanced at Sherlock, now sitting on the couch next to him. "Do what?"

"Give yourself such a hard time for being human."

Flushing, John looked down again. "I'm sick of being scared all the time," he said curtly, shaking his head. "I'm tired of - all of it. Feeling like this."

"He nearly killed you, John. Don't you have a right to feel afraid?"

"Well, to be fair he almost killed us both. But when will this feeling stop?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It stops when it stops. It doesn't work on a timetable. Fear's a reasonable response. Without it you'd let your guard down, and if the need for fear is still there, you can't afford that."

"Whatever happened to 'the only thing we have to fear is fear itself?'"

"Edgar Watson Howe said, 'A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice.'"

"Is there any subject you can't find a quote about?"

"Hypothetically, yes."

John smiled tightly. "So give me a helpful quote about how you get your bollocks back after having them scared off."

"I don't have one for that."

"Figures."

"You've already faced up to your fears, John," Sherlock said in a terribly gentle voice. "You came back, you went back to work, you survived. Today was a shock. Probably won't be the last one, either. But you didn't head to Canada this time, did you?"

"Not yet," John muttered, trying not to smile.

"Moriarty is a a dangerous man." Sherlock met John's glance steadily. "He's also a known quantity. Do you see what I'm saying? You know who he is, and you know what he is. Don't you?"

John paused, swallowing. "As much as anyone does, I guess." John stared down at his cup of coffee. "I think - It's like I'm afraid of things I can't explain. Like he'll do something else, something we didn't anticipate. That part seems to be his game. The unexpected. It's the things you don't know that get you."

"So anticipate. What's he thinking, right now?"

"You think I know that?" John shot back hotly.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I think you do. Come on, think John. What's his agenda?"

"He's - fixated on you," John said in a dubious voice.

"And?"

John gave him a wounded look. "Why are you asking me this? What the hell good is this supposed to do?"

"I don't know." Sherlock kept regarding him with the same steady gaze. "Demystify him, John. I don't say you have to understand why he does what he does. I don't think you can, or anyone else, completely. But if it's the things you don't know that scare you...?"

John nodded slowly. "I think he'll use me to get to you. That much is obvious. I'm not even sure he's still - fixated."

"But you assume he is. What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"I don't want to say that," John whispered. "You know that answer."

"Are you afraid he'll kill you?"

His throat ached. He shook his head after a long moment.

"Tell me, John. Say it out loud."

"I think I'm scared he's - not going to kill me."

Sherlock blinked at him, slightly startled. "What?" For all his control, Sherlock's face was very pale. "How do you mean?"

"I don't know—I- I can't anticipate -"

"You can't anticipate everything, no. But you can be prepared."

"Like a good soldier, huh."

"Exactly like one."

John shrugged. "I already carry my weapon."

"So you're armed, and you're prepared to use your sidearm if necessary."

"Yes."

Sherlock's hand was warm and good on his shoulder. "When he got you, you were alone. That's something else that's different."

John drew Sherlock's hand down to hold it in both his own. "I don't want you in the line of fire," he said hoarsely.

"I won't be. Although I can tell you, if I have the chance I'll take the shot myself. This time I'll take it."

John glanced up at him. The glint in Sherlock's eye made him feel absurdly good. "Thanks."

Sherlock took his hand back and used the arm to pull John close to him. "I'm -sorry I can't undo what's happened to you, John," he said in a low voice, one hand slowly stroking John's back. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you when you left the flat. But you think I'll take the chance that it could happen again? No way in hell. Never. Ever."

Throat terribly tight, John murmured, "I'll give you a pound if you'll stop saying you're sorry."

"Make it a hundred and I'll think about it."

"It's not your fault."

"No. But Canada was."

"We're not in Canada anymore."

"No. Feel better?"

He thought about lying, but didn't. Fine, right as rain, thanks for the pep talk Captain. "A little, yeah."

"Good."

* * *

The hell of it was, he still had to go to work and assist Sherlock. He could either sit at home and stew in his own juices - something he figured wasn't going to make things any better - or go to work, focus, business as usual even when it wasn't. He opted for the latter.

He was scanning a hallway at portraits on the wall at scene of a kidnapped wife - when his mobile rang. He didn't think twice upon answering, assuming it was Sherlock asking him to head back outside.

"You moved into his bed."

John froze. His throat wouldn't make any words. Just this transfixed silence.

"How'd you get this number?" Distantly startled at how calm he sounded. Maybe Sherlock was rubbing off on him after all.

"Where are you now, John?" Moriarty's voice was terribly, awfully calm. "Finally find the nerve to head back into work?"

"None of your goddamn business," he whispered.

He should hang up. It would be so easy. Should be, and yet he just sat there, frozen, heart skipping so fast inside his chest he could barely hear anything but his heartbeat and this familiar, loathed voice.

"Did you have fun in Canada, John?" Jim asked sweetly.

"Listen, you sick fuck," John said, voice warbling, briefly realizing his words got the attention of Lestrade down the hallway. "Got your little message, nice touch that. I'd like to see you try taking me again." Easy John, shit, his emotions were getting a little out of hand. "This time you won't be so lucky. You'll get caught eventually, they all do."

"Now come on, John, you can't just dismiss me like this. Look at all we went through together. The three of us." The spookily merry laugh made John's stomach lurch. "They can't put me in jail if they can't find me, now, can they?"

"Leave me alone," John whispered, fighting down nausea.

"Aw, you know I can't do that. We're all connected you know." A pause. "Death do us part, right, John?"

He heard Lestrade's voice, from about fifty miles away: "John? John, who is that?"

But it didn't matter, he was too damn far away, and it didn't stop him from listening, from hearing, when Jim added, "Don't feel bad, John. See you soon."

He felt someone taking the phone out of his hand, but not fast enough. Lestrade's concerned face seemed somehow murky, as if the room were filled with smoke.

"Slower, John, you're going to hyperventilate." A soft touch on his shoulder, barely noticeable. "Who was that? Who called you?"

He blinked away the fog and shook his hand off. "I'm okay," he said distantly, snatching his phone back. His head felt terribly lightweight, but something new was curdling in his stomach. Something that felt much, much better already. "I'm really okay."

"I'm calling Sherlock. We need to get -"

"No."

Lestrade stared at him, and John drew a long breath and made himself shrug. "That won't be necessary. I have work to do."

"Piss off work," Lestrade shot back, face wrinkled in a frown. "You don't have to -"

"Yes, I do." John slipped his phone back into his pocket, marveling at the absolute rock steadiness of his hand. "I can handle it."

And yeah, he could, right? Because if Jim fucking Moriarty showed up now, he was very, very sure of what would happen. No need for police, or lovers or anyone else. This was between himself and Jim, and it was only going to happen one way.

He registered the feel of his sidearm, warm under his jacket.

He fully intended to be the only one left standing.

He smiled easily at Lestrade and walked back down the hall.

* * *

He might have reached a kind of peace with the situation, but the moment he saw Sherlock's face back at Bart's, he recognized Sherlock hadn't.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked tightly, jaw muscles so tight John could practically hear the stress. "Tell me."

"Whoa, calm down. Nothing happened. Just a phone call."

"Just a phone call for now," Sherlock shot back.

"Maybe." John shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about it." He said as casually as he could.

"John, that phone number is brand-new - he shouldn't have been able to get that, either!"

He hadn't thought much about that. "Well," he hedged, "I don't think -"

"Who needs to think?" Sherlock snapped. "We need a full investigation on this, he's a wanted man. You gave full details to Lestrade, yes?"

John shrugged dismissively and looked away.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John-"

John shook his head. "It's not a big deal, Sherlock, we don't -"

"Wait a second." The minute Sherlock gave him the full force of his anger, John felt like running. Christ, the guy was intense. "You're telling me you didn't TELL them? Are you INSANE?"

Possibly, he thought about saying, but another glance at Sherlock's thunderous look made him think twice. John looked around the lab, and said in a low voice, "I'm armed, informed. He's not going to sneak up on me."

Sherlock leaned against the counter, face aghast. "Jesus, John," he said in a softer, wilder voice. "Don't you get it? He already HAS."

Rebuffed, John swallowed hard. "I'm not going to let him keep doing this to me," he managed. "I can't live like this. Let him try. At least it'll be over."

The anger evaporated; now Sherlock looked wounded. "Don't say that, please. Just don't."

"Why not? It's the truth!"

Sherlock didn't reply to that. Without meeting John's eyes he fumbled his way into his chair, sitting as if he were suddenly utterly exhausted. Well, probably was, come to think of it. God knew John was.

Coming over to the desk, John leaned on one hand. Putting every bit of fierceness he still possessed into his voice, he said, "I can't run away this time, Sherlock, and you know it. I'm not going to live my life this way. It's like you said: we have to anticipate. I'm anticipating!"

"Are you?" Sherlock replied hollowly.

"You want me to hide behind uniforms instead? Not even be able to do my job because -"

"I want you ALIVE, John," Sherlock snapped, pushing himself out of his chair and leaning forward for emphasis. "That's what I want. That's ALL I want!"

"I am alive," John murmured helplessly.

Sherlock drew a long breath. John could see his arms shaking, the way his throat worked for a second. "All I want is for you to stay that way, John," he said finally, in a trembling voice. "Don't give up. Please."

"I'm - not giving up."

"You sound like you are. Jesus." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I just want my life back, Sherlock," John said in a stricken voice. "It's all I want. I can't - WE can't let this man live our lives for us. We can't."

"Then let's call Lestrade." Sherlock already had pulled out his mobile.

John nodded stiffly. "They won't be able to find him."

The words hit Sherlock hard; he made an inarticulate sound and sat down again. "Do you have any idea," he began slowly, not meeting John's eyes, "what would happen to me, if something happened to you?"

"Nothing -"

"You don't, do you?" The anger and fear drained away, leaving Sherlock white-faced and terribly calm. "You have no idea." An awful smile twisted his lips. "Neither do I."

"Sherlock, please, listen to me." John circled the desk, perching on the edge next to Sherlock's chair. "I'm gonna be okay. Nothing is going to happen. I can handle phone calls. They're just words."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, reaching up to rub one temple. "Maybe you can, but I'm not sure I can."

John smiled shakily and reached over to touch Sherlock's shoulder. "Bird by bird. Isn't that what they say?"

Sherlock snorted and didn't smile, but the old look faded a fraction. "I should kick your arse for this," he mumbled, covering John's hand with his own. "All the way to Canada. Call Lestrade, fill him in on everything he said. If not for you, then for me?"

"Okay," John agreed, meeting Sherlock's anguished stare. "Let's do it."

* * *

Lestrade, per usual, did all the right things, and soon enough were additional details out on the already released APW out for Jim Moriarty. Wouldn't do much good, John knew; unless the guy wanted to be found no one would find him. Might be a lunatic, but he was a smart lunatic, a cagey son of a bitch, and John had no doubts that one phone call wouldn't be the last contact they had. He kept a bullet chambered in his sidearm, made sure he wasn't alone, and did his best to stay wary. What else could he do?

Sherlock, now. That was another matter.

It was frankly startling to see how hard this was on the detective. Hadn't it been Sherlock doing the Rock of Gibraltar impression, not so very long ago? But now it was John taking up the slack, vaguely surprised at how easy it was. How good it felt. Nice to be de-neutered, to get his balls and his nerve back. And just in time, because Sherlock was jumping at shadows, almost completely unable to let John out of his sight for more than a minute or two. Which didn't lend itself to easily concealing what was becoming a serious non-professional relationship.

Sherlock didn't say much on their way home early that morning. It was a new mood, one John didn't completely understand, but enough to know there wasn't anything he himself could say, either. The knowledge was right there, staring him in the face: Sherlock was as vulnerable as John was, in different ways, and this latest development had pushed him in a direction he hadn't had to deal with lately. Maybe never. John wasn't sure.

Who knew what Sherlock's background really was? Oh, sure, education, qualifications, personal quirks that revealed themselves over time. But what about the man's emotional shit? Where in the hell did he put all the shit John knew for a fact he must carry around 24/7? Buried so deep sometimes John wondered if it could exist at all.

One thing was clear: Sherlock wasn't saying. Not now, and John wasn't about to try to guess when - if ever - he would say. So he sat silently in the cab's backseat, waiting for some kind of clue.

It came in the way Sherlock grabbed him the minute they were inside. As if taking John in his arms was something he'd wanted to do as badly as a man dying of thirst in the Gobi grabbed for water.

"It's okay," John mumbled, crushed up against him so tight his ribs sang out with vague distress. "It's gonna be okay."

Sherlock didn't say a word, but pulled away enough to give him a frantic kiss, a hard one, not loving but voracious and oddly panic-stricken. No idea what else to do; John just let him do it, reassure himself if that was what he was doing: Yes, I'm still here, still alive, staying that way, too. Right here, right now.

In the bedroom he tried to help Sherlock take his clothes off, but finally just stood there while Sherlock stripped him, aroused and kind of scared in the face of this bizarrely erotic focus. There wasn't a part of him Sherlock didn't touch, fondle, kiss: neck, chest, arms, fingers, belly, hips.

"Sherlock -" he gasped.

"No." Sherlock stood so fast it made John's own head spin, grabbing him and pushing him down on the bed. "No," he repeated, and pulled his own shirt off without unbuttoning it first. A couple of buttons bit the dust, clittering on the floor.

Oh, Christ, this was going way, way too fast, and yet there was a weird sense of abandon to it, like he cared less and less when Sherlock mashed him against the mattress, greedy too-hard kisses and Sherlock's clothed crotch glued up against John's bare one. What he cared about was wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips, pushing up until it hurt, and hearing Sherlock's strangled growl of pleasure.

"What do you want?" John wheezed, pushing Sherlock back an inch or two, panting like he'd just run full-tilt for ten blocks. "What do you need? Tell me."

Sherlock's eyes were dark and glistening with lust and anguish and tears. "Everything," he rasped, grinding their dicks together.

He's going to hurt you, some part of him said, what was left of that still soft voice of reason. He's going to hurt you, fucking you, and he'll never get over it. You will, you know you will, just like you know for a stone fact he won't. Ever.

"Stop," John whispered, prying his hands free and putting his palms on Sherlock's oven-hot cheeks. "Stop, Sherlock. Slow down."

Staring down at him, Sherlock made a terrible sound deep in his throat and shook his head. John held harder, forcing him to be still. "Listen to me, Sherlock," he said fiercely, as gently as he could. "Listen to me. We can do this, I want to do this. But not like this. Not now."

Sherlock made another broken sound, and John arched up to kiss him, fast and hard. "I'm right here," he continued, pulling until Sherlock lay on top of him, panting but for the first time easing off a little, listening. "Right here, and not going anywhere. Believe it. But you don't want it to be like that. I know you, I know you don't."

He had no idea how long they just lay there, naked and clothed, both hard and scared and wheezing like a couple of asthmatics who left their inhalers at the office. But there was a moment when he felt Sherlock finally let go, almost saw the terror and desperate need morph into honest feeling instead of angry lust. Sherlock rolled to the side, still wrapped in John's arms, and buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder.

With a sense of surreal, distant wonder John petted Sherlock's hair, combing his fingers through it, listening to Sherlock bark a few harsh sobs. "He didn't get me," John crooned, almost to himself. "I won't do that to you, Sherlock, I swear to God. I didn't know I was doing that to you, but I do now, I swear I do, and it won't happen again. It's okay, it's all okay."

He's not a Vulcan, that tiny voice whispered. How could you ever have thought that? But you never will again, will you?

"It's all right," John whispered, blinking back a few tears of his own, and closed his eyes, letting his calming touch say what words simply couldn't, anymore.

* * *

Sherlock slept late, his turn apparently. John lay there in filtered white London sunlight and watched him sleep, a hushed moment of inspection. In sleep Sherlock's guards came down: mouth soft, lines of focus and thought smoothed out. Dark eyelashes making sooty shadows against his skin.

What a strange, awful, wonderful time it was, wasn't it? So weird, to feel so good. It wasn't enough to recognize how unexpected it was, how unlooked-for. It felt more like considering some completely alien concept. He could never have anticipated this. Of all the things to take him by surprise the past couple of months, none compared to now. No fearful flight could match this fluttering, almost painful sense of astonished joy he felt now.

If this was what love was like, he had something in common with Sherlock. He'd never been in love before.

He lay on his side and watched Sherlock wake up. Slow, syrupy-tired sleep into muzzy-eyed wakefulness.

"Hi," John breathed.

Sherlock's mouth curved in a slanted smile. "Hi yourself," he replied in a sleepy voice.

John reached out to touch the place on Sherlock's cheek where the pillowcase had left a dent. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Memory flickered like a movie over Sherlock's features, and John smiled.

"This is nice."

The momentary tension bled away, thank God. "It is, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured, covering John's hand with his own and bringing it over to kiss his fingers slowly. "Really nice."

"Want some coffee?"

"Not really."

"Neither do I."

Funny how words seemed so important, and yet turned out to be vastly overrated. The angle of the sunlight changed, sliding over the sheets until it shone on the east wall, but time itself had stopped. Nothing else really mattered. Nothing outside. Nothing could touch them here.

There was love, after a while. The kind of passion that didn't obliterate, heat that didn't scar but felt wonderfully, achingly intense. Ignoring Sherlock's faint protests John explored Sherlock's body, taking a kind of absurd sheepish pride in marking out various places that got more of a response than others. The hollow over Sherlock's collarbone, the warm furriness of his armpit. Watching the way Sherlock shrank away when John kissed a ticklish place, rumbling laughter tinged with blessed heat, and listening to the urgent sounds he made as John skirted his hard cock, nuzzling his hipbones, the insides of his thighs, the place where his dick met his balls. No such thing as time, anymore. Time simply didn't matter.

He kissed the tip of Sherlock's cock and smiled slowly, watching him from between Sherlock's tense thighs. Kneed his way back up the bed and kissed Sherlock's open mouth, reaching with one hand over to the bedside table, inside the drawer.

Sherlock drew an expectant breath, seeing it, and John shook his head slowly. "I want it," he whispered almost noiselessly, vaguely resenting the crackle of plastic.

Without any real thought he smoothed a condom on Sherlock's dick, taking his time but not too teasing now. No, this wasn't the time for that. This was the time for this.

It was Sherlock who opened him up, fingers slick with lube and so deliciously, terribly gentle. Kissing him when he winced, smiling against his mouth when the wince turned into slow sticky pleasure.

He turned on his side, briefly mourning the position while Sherlock's sure hand caressed John's hip, urging his thighs apart. He made a strangled sound when Sherlock pressed into him, listening hard to the whispered assurances, the pauses while Sherlock let him get used to it, letting him set the pace even when John felt the thrum of energy in Sherlock's body, the urgency in his hardness.

But it didn't hurt at all then, felt strange and briefly naughty and then just flat-out GOOD, slow strokes deep inside him and back, not quite out again, sweet motion that woke up parts of him that had always slept before, now shivering and flexing with more and more intent urgency. We LIKE this, do that again, yeah, THAT, oh SHIT, yeah, again, again, YES.

He didn't even recognize his own voice, this taut anxious cajoling, begging Sherlock to do that faster, deeper, all the WAY, YES, and then Sherlock's rumbled laughter and obliging more intent thrusting, meeting the way John tried to push back with pushes forward. The room and the city and everything else, EVERYTHING, went away, left them blissfully alone with just this, the feel of Sherlock's cock INSIDE him, the feel of his own hand stroking himself to the same fantastic, mind-erasing rhythm, until he coughed a sharp sound and tensed up, here and THERE, heard Sherlock's hoarse curse when he felt it, too, and they came almost the same time, two tense bodies locked in one shuddering long moment of absolutely YES.

* * *

"Holy shit," John said some unknown amount of time later.

Sherlock's arm tightened around him, his chest shaking with a chuckle. "Yeah."

"Sherlock," John mumbled, blinking blearily at him. "Why didn't you TELL me?"

With a theatrically studious look Sherlock shrugged. "I don't even have a quote for that one."

John leaned forward an inch and kissed him luxuriantly, tightening the grip of his leg thrown over Sherlock's hips. "That," he mumbled against Sherlock's mouth, "was amazing."

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock kissed him back, one hand cupping John's still-quivering buttock. "I told you there's a reason people keep doing it."

"Mm-hmm. How soon can we do it again?"

Sherlock laughed, kissing him again briefly. "Considering it's almost noon and I was supposed to meet with Lestrade an hour ago?"

"Yeah." John nuzzled beneath Sherlock's jaw.

"How about tonight?"

"That better be a promise."

"Absolutely."

Reluctantly John levered himself up on one elbow, looking at the clock. "Sherlock," he breathed, surprised. "Hey, can you call in sick?"

"Well, no."

"Damn."

Another chuckle. "I know."

"Take a shower with me?"

"Oh, no."

"Aw."

"No way."

"Damn," John repeated, smiling gently.

When he got out of the shower Sherlock had sandwiches ready, and John bolted his and made another while Sherlock ate, trying very hard not to give in and tackle the guy again. He got dressed while Sherlock had his turn in the shower, which gave him the distinct pleasure of being able to watch Sherlock naked, hunting for something to wear.

"You don't have to do that on my account, you know," John said in his smokiest voice, and got a flustered glare in return.

The more time passed, though, the more he could put this new level of awareness where it belonged, banked, not gone but relegated to a controllable degree. He was strapping on his sidearm when the doorbell rang.

"Want me to get it?"

Sherlock shook his head, moving to the stairs. "I'll see to it. Grab my jacket, would you?"

It was the no-talking that made him go still. No greeting, just the sound of the door opening, and then silence. John frowned and looked down the stairs.

"Hi, John," Jim said, smiling. The revolver in his hand didn't waver, held an inch from Sherlock's temple. "Miss me?"

* * *

The room did a nauseating duck-and-roll, and he blinked away a fog of utter terror. "No. Please, no," John whispered almost soundlessly.

"You've really disappointed me, John." The business end of the revolver pushed against Sherlock's temple, the detective had been forced to his knees and John saw him brace himself. Jim's calculating smile widened. "I turn my back for just a little while, and this is where I find you two. Bad, bad boys."

Part of his brain stood back, guaging how far away they were, how close his weapon was, how long it would take to draw it. Too fucking long; Sherlock had about a millisecond to spare if it came to that, and the fastest draw west couldn't match that. Plan B, Johny. NOW.

"Go, John," Sherlock said in a strangled voice. "Get out. Window."

"Let him go. Please, Mr. Moriarty. You want me, is that it? 'Get Watson' right? Not Sherlock. He's not apart of that is he."

"In a way, he is," Jim smiled. "But you let him fuck you, didn't you?"

"So much for not getting your hands dirty," Sherlock snarled. Jim pistol wiped him sharply, throwing Sherlock's head back.

"Sherlock," John cried. "Jesus, please, just - let him go. Don't make him pay for my - mistake." He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's horrified expression, and ignored it. "I'll go with you," he continued frantically. "Anywhere you want. I'll do anything you want me to do, just - don't hurt him. Okay? Please?"

"John -" Sherlock started, and Jim pulled back the hammer.

A part of him died at that moment. He saw Sherlock dead, just like he'd seen himself. That elegant, fiendishly complex brain, sprayed all over the walls.

No. No way.

"You win, Jim," John said in a broken voice. "And you know it. Please, please just - let him go."

"You're a coward, too, aren't you, John?" Jim shook his head slowly.

"Okay, I guess I am." John swallowed hard. "So let's go, and - And you can - finish, okay? I'll go with you just let Sherlock go."

"I told him," Jim stated calmly, "That I would burn his heart. So get in the cab outside. You or Sherlock make a move, my associate Sebastian is placed in a sniper position, and he will shoot to kill."

He tried not to look at Sherlock before the door closed behind them. Didn't want to remember Sherlock that way.

Nothing to be done about how Sherlock remembered him.


End file.
